Over the past eighteen months I've suffered from the most dreadful case of writer's block. Many writers refuse to acknowledge that such a thing exists. They will say that it's just laziness or lack of talent. I say different. I freely admit to being hopelessly lazy. Without a deadline to work to I will do anything almost anything to avoid sitting down to write. At some point however, I do eventually get started.
My recent experience has been different. I simply could not marshall my thoughts. Nothing I wrote seemed at all coherent. I couldn't come up with a single original idea. I thought I was cracking up.
I found myself on a nasty downward spiral. I was desperate to write. I knew that if I could just complete a piece of work, I would be over the hurdle. However, the more desperate I became, the more difficult it became to write. I found that I couldn't write for wanting to write. My writing muscle was paralysed. That sounds crazy, but that is how it felt.
I began reading magazines and books on writing in an attempt to get myself in the right frame of mind. It helped up to a point. Stephen King's On Writing in particular was inspirational. Reading it felt like he was in the room with me, telling me what being a writer should be all about. When I finished reading On Writing I really wanted to get on and write something. I have at least a dozen or more ideas for books that I've been sitting on for a while, but still the juices weren't flowing properly. I couldn't get my ideas down on paper.
I tried all kinds of things. Sitting at my desk with a pen and paper. Trying to write on my laptop. Going out to the woods and trying to write outdoors. Different times of day and night. Nothing worked.
Eventually I decided to go back to basics, and do what all the experts recommend. Just write something every day. It doesn't matter what, or how poor it is. Just write!
I bought The Writer's Block by Jason Rekulak and began just turning to random pages and writing about whatever was on that page. Nothing too complicated, just letting my consciousness wander and getting it all down on paper. The sense of pride (not to mention relief) at seeing a page of my own work was staggering. The quality of my jottings was not that great and a bit unstructured, but at least I was writing. My confidence began to grow.
I was diagnosed with depression a couple of years ago which I now realise has probably been at least part of my problem. The medication I was taking played havoc with my concentration and left me permanently tired and lethargic. The problem hasn't gone away, but with the drugs out of my system and writing at least a few hundred words every day I feel like I am making progress. The quality isn't always fantastic, but I feel like I am working again.
Tuesday 30 September 2008
Sunday 7 September 2008
Fertility
The following is an exercise, from a day when I was absolutely determined to write and simply couldn't get to work on my novel. I picked a title at random from The Writer's Block and wrote!
There is no better feeling than getting your hands stuck into a bit of dirt. To plunge in right up to the wrists in good honest soil. Thick, warm, nutrient rich, black humus. To feel the clammy wriggle of the earth worms, or a the prickly scurry of a centipede. Crumbling like fine biscuit crumbs between the fingers, its loamy goodness just itching to spring forth with life in abundance. This is the stuff of life.
When the sun beats down on a hot summer day, kneeling beside the raised vegetable beds of the allotment is a form of therapy unrivalled . Just the slightest hint of a breeze is needed to dry the sweat. Perhaps the low burble of the cricket commentary coming from a wireless on a neighbouring plot. The occasional waft of barbecue smoke to wet the appetite for this evenings feast that lies ahead.
The hazels behind the shed crinkle and shimmy, providing a fluttering stage for the song birds who serenade the garden. Bees whir amongst the lavender. An occasional Red Admiral flashes among the runner beans.
There is a curious satisfaction to be gained from this sort of toil. The firm bite of the spade into the sun baked earth. The pitter patter of the watering can bringing a welcome quenching to new seedlings, struggling toward the light. Crouched for hours teasing tiny stalks of chickweed or labouring to and fro from the water butts induces a dull pleasurable ache in the base of the spine. But it’s good. It’s the pain that stems from worthwhile endeavour.
The crop will be good this year. Ruddy globes of beetroot peek out beneath leafy crowns, like rows of palace guards. In ranks before them are the sturdy private soldiers, the Greyhound cabbages. Full of succulent goodness, scarcely a nibble from their leaves, they have grown to epic proportions. Those well steeped Yorkshire teabags scattered at the roots have paid dividends. There is much to be learned by listening to the old gardeners. They who idle the day away leaning on their prehistoric spades, nicotine stained fingers filling yet another pipe with sweet smelling baccy.
Swedes lie low like snipers, whilst peas and borlotti beans hang suspended, paratroopers destined to never quite reach terra firma. Sweetcorns hang menacingly, like cluster bombs, poised to shed their golden seed payload upon the ground. They will be cut down in their prime, of course. They will be richly decorated with medals of butter and a dusting ofpepper.
Butternut squashes and pumpkins stand aloof and apart. Not for them the tight cluster formation of the garden squadie. They are the heavy field artillery, and ettiquette demands that they be afforded a wide birth.
Most respect though is commanded by the tear gas brigade. The Red Onions. Those fiercesome bulbs that can lay low the strongest of men and have them snivelling like children. Without them the cook’s arsenal is just so much damp powder.
The carrots, those straight backed generals with their crested plumes. Little do they know the folly of this campaign. Tonight their bloated corpses will rest in pieces upon the cold slab of the chopping board.
And the potato? The Home Guard, the Maris Piper, Edward king of spuds? Well, they are tasty, pure and simple. Garnished with a sprinkling of salt and a grating of parsley, they will flesh out many a fine repast this season.
What about the greenhouse they cry? That hallowed temple to fecundity wherein the rosy cherubs reside. Delight of gardeners and cooks alike, the goddess of the garden, the plump rosy tomato luxuriates on a throne of course ensnaring vines. All around, her priapic priests the cucumbers nod their knowing heads in earnest anticipation. They know the time draws near when they will take her to a bed freshly made with crisp sheets of lettuce. Salad days indeed!
At the back, those strapping young footmen the courgettes bide their patient time. For the present they play second fiddle to the priests. But after the young virgin Moneymaker has been sacrificed upon the altar of summers gorging, things will be different. Summer’s royalty will be no more and the staples of the common man will rule. When the autumn revolution comes these proud young marrows will take part in an orgiastic riot of soups, stews and spag bol. And that rotund trollop, the beef tomato will be their mate.
There is no better feeling than getting your hands stuck into a bit of dirt. To plunge in right up to the wrists in good honest soil. Thick, warm, nutrient rich, black humus. To feel the clammy wriggle of the earth worms, or a the prickly scurry of a centipede. Crumbling like fine biscuit crumbs between the fingers, its loamy goodness just itching to spring forth with life in abundance. This is the stuff of life.
When the sun beats down on a hot summer day, kneeling beside the raised vegetable beds of the allotment is a form of therapy unrivalled . Just the slightest hint of a breeze is needed to dry the sweat. Perhaps the low burble of the cricket commentary coming from a wireless on a neighbouring plot. The occasional waft of barbecue smoke to wet the appetite for this evenings feast that lies ahead.
The hazels behind the shed crinkle and shimmy, providing a fluttering stage for the song birds who serenade the garden. Bees whir amongst the lavender. An occasional Red Admiral flashes among the runner beans.
There is a curious satisfaction to be gained from this sort of toil. The firm bite of the spade into the sun baked earth. The pitter patter of the watering can bringing a welcome quenching to new seedlings, struggling toward the light. Crouched for hours teasing tiny stalks of chickweed or labouring to and fro from the water butts induces a dull pleasurable ache in the base of the spine. But it’s good. It’s the pain that stems from worthwhile endeavour.
The crop will be good this year. Ruddy globes of beetroot peek out beneath leafy crowns, like rows of palace guards. In ranks before them are the sturdy private soldiers, the Greyhound cabbages. Full of succulent goodness, scarcely a nibble from their leaves, they have grown to epic proportions. Those well steeped Yorkshire teabags scattered at the roots have paid dividends. There is much to be learned by listening to the old gardeners. They who idle the day away leaning on their prehistoric spades, nicotine stained fingers filling yet another pipe with sweet smelling baccy.
Swedes lie low like snipers, whilst peas and borlotti beans hang suspended, paratroopers destined to never quite reach terra firma. Sweetcorns hang menacingly, like cluster bombs, poised to shed their golden seed payload upon the ground. They will be cut down in their prime, of course. They will be richly decorated with medals of butter and a dusting ofpepper.
Butternut squashes and pumpkins stand aloof and apart. Not for them the tight cluster formation of the garden squadie. They are the heavy field artillery, and ettiquette demands that they be afforded a wide birth.
Most respect though is commanded by the tear gas brigade. The Red Onions. Those fiercesome bulbs that can lay low the strongest of men and have them snivelling like children. Without them the cook’s arsenal is just so much damp powder.
The carrots, those straight backed generals with their crested plumes. Little do they know the folly of this campaign. Tonight their bloated corpses will rest in pieces upon the cold slab of the chopping board.
And the potato? The Home Guard, the Maris Piper, Edward king of spuds? Well, they are tasty, pure and simple. Garnished with a sprinkling of salt and a grating of parsley, they will flesh out many a fine repast this season.
What about the greenhouse they cry? That hallowed temple to fecundity wherein the rosy cherubs reside. Delight of gardeners and cooks alike, the goddess of the garden, the plump rosy tomato luxuriates on a throne of course ensnaring vines. All around, her priapic priests the cucumbers nod their knowing heads in earnest anticipation. They know the time draws near when they will take her to a bed freshly made with crisp sheets of lettuce. Salad days indeed!
At the back, those strapping young footmen the courgettes bide their patient time. For the present they play second fiddle to the priests. But after the young virgin Moneymaker has been sacrificed upon the altar of summers gorging, things will be different. Summer’s royalty will be no more and the staples of the common man will rule. When the autumn revolution comes these proud young marrows will take part in an orgiastic riot of soups, stews and spag bol. And that rotund trollop, the beef tomato will be their mate.
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